An Essay on Butter-Making. 
Butter is the mature fruit of the full¬ 
blown cow. It is the greatest effort of her 
life. The cow toils not, neither does she 
spin, yet I say unto you that Solomon in 
all his glory could not beat her on hand¬ 
made, or rather milk-maid, butter. This 
subtle joke I have repaired and newly up¬ 
holstered for use during the summer. 
Butter comes from the cow in a liquid 
State. It is quite a trick to win her confi¬ 
dence so that she will yield it up to a total 
stranger. I once sought to woo the lacteal 
fluid from the milk retort of a large speckled 
cow, to whom I was a comparative strang¬ 
er. bhe wasn’t one of those blooded cows 
that look as though they have been cut out 
of a sheet of paper with a pair of scissors. 
She was a low cow with very coarse in 
stincts, born in obscurity. 
Her brow was low, but she wore her tail 
high, and she was haughty—oh, so haugh¬ 
ty ! The young man who had hitherto ac 
quired the milk from this cow desired one 
fine evening to hie him away to a neighbor¬ 
ing village, where he might trip the light 
bombastic toe till the “Wee sma’ hours 
ayont the twa\” (Quotation from a poet 
who was a poor speller.) He wanted me to 
milk his large, speckled cow, and I said I 
would. The movement was certainly ill- 
advised. I undertook to do as I had agreed, 
but failed. From the moment I entered 
her stall and made a common-place remark 
to her, I knew our acquaintance would not 
lead to a warm attachment. 
Somehow I felt constrained and uneasy 
in her society, from the moment we met, 
until loving hands pulled me through the 
stable window, and brought me back to 
consciousness. 
I shall never undertake to milk a strange 
cow again until the sign is right. So far 
the sign has not been right. 
I might be sent on a polar expedition, 
and get stranded on an iceberg, with no 
other alternative but to milk a cow or eat 
an old friend; but I should hate to tackle 
the cow unless the friend was a very old 
friend indeed. 
Butter is produced by expunging the 
juice from a rare and costly chemical 
known as cream. Cream is the bead on 
the milk. 
Milk is known as dry and extra dry. A 
good milkman will always ask you wheth¬ 
er you want your milk wet or otherwise. 
An old well-digger named Grady, told 
me about going over into Southern Indi¬ 
ana at one time to dig a well for a man 
named Withum. Withum was said to be 
very close. He was the most contiguous 
man in Indiana. His wife used to skim 
the milk on one side, and then turn it over 
and skim the bubbles off. It was a con¬ 
stant struggle between Withum and his 
wife to see who would be the meaner. 
The first day that Grady was there, they 
had a round ball of butter about as big as a 
lemon, and as hard as Pharaoh’s heart. The 
butter-knife had a handle that would turn 
every time any one tried to get a lick at 
the butter, and the little round ball would 
flop over on the other side and smile. 
Now and then a hired man would reach 
over with his own knife, and make a slash 
at the butter; but the butter, confident of 
its own strength, would tip over with a 
dull thud and the man would heave a sigh 
and give it up. 
Then another farm hand would make a 
wild dash at it, but burst into tears, and 
quit. 
Finally, Grady, who had watched this 
performance several days, jabbed his fork 
down through the middle of the yellow 
chunk, and successfully cut it in two. In 
the center was a small wooden top. 
“There,” said Grady, “I’ve found out 
what the blamed thing is wound on, any- 
how !”—Bill Nye. 
THE GARDENER’S MONTHLY 
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